


The Forest Fell to Underdark

by AlphaStarr



Series: Trope Bingo Round 7 [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Ambiguous Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Elrond is Everyone's Dad, F/M, Giant Spiders, M/M, Matriarchy AU, Mutual Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Spiders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 07:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8392624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaStarr/pseuds/AlphaStarr
Summary: Isildur's destruction of the ring did indeed prevent Sauron's rise in the Third Age-- but merely look to the East, and see that the night shall always fall there first. The darkness needs no single herald, and Ungoliant's brood are many indeed.Matriarchy AU feat. Aragorn/Legolas and the spiders of Mirkwood.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trope Bingo Round 7, "AU: Alternate Gender Norms" and "Unrequited Love/Pining." My first foray into LOTR fic.
> 
> I've decided to take the AU prompt along the lines of reskinning the culture of Middle Earth as matriarchal, which is _definitely not_ the norm of Tolkien's initial work. Minor crossover, I suppose, as some of the ideas are heavily borrowed from AD &D and its successors.
> 
> One character has been gender-flipped in this AU: Isildur was a woman, and successfully disposed of the One Ring roughly 40 generations before LOTR, thereby making the Quest as we know it nonexistent... though, that isn't to say it doesn't have its own AU counterpart. 

They said the Lady of Rivendell was the most beautiful of elves, an Evening-Star among her people.

'Twas not only her hair, as dark and smooth as the late-night sky, nor her arched cheek as pale as the moon. There were many elleths with such a description laid to their beauty, should an elf courtier be bold enough to speak it. Nay-- her beauty lay in her eyes, with a gleam that was wise beyond her years, and in her heart, warm and compassionate and devoted to her realm and its peace.

She had served as adviser to many a conflicted elleth or elf, as healer to an injured traveler, as confidante of the Dúnedain chieftesses, and too-- a devoted daughter, sister, and guardian.

"Aragorn," she spoke, and gently touched her ward's shoulder. "You come oft to this chamber as of late... Heir of Isildur."

"Lady Arwen," the man tore his gaze from the shattered Narsil. "I thank you for your concern... but Isildur has not had an Heiress these past thousand years. I wish you would not refer to me as such."

"Heir of Elendil, then," Arwen answered, her smile fond. "The last of the Great Men... and father to the bravest of women. The man who last bore this blade whole."

"I dare not presume so... the law of the Dúnedan are in accord that it belongs to Chieftess Núniel," Aragorn shook his head. "As it did to the Chieftess before her."

"Lady Núniel does not bear Isildur's blood as your mother once did," Arwen turned her head, softly questioning. "And I am told she favors you like one of her own family. I do not think she would begrudge you the blade's use, if you truly had need of it."

"I pray I shall not have need of it," Aragorn replied, exhaling deeply. "Among the rangers, a male captain is not so strange a sight... but in the land of Gondor, it is nigh unheard of."

"Gondor may see progress yet, in your lifetime," Arwen soothed. "I am told of the Stewardess' son, Boromir, who heads a guard squadron composed entirely of men. Indeed... he is _all_ I have heard about from Chief Heiress Ecthelhel. She may drop her suit of you yet."

"Indeed? Then both accounts of news fill me with joy," Aragorn managed a smile. "When I completed my service in Gondor, elevation to such honor had never before been seen... and, when I last saw Ecthelhel, she spent several hours insisting that I would regret turning down her proposal."

"Yes... my grandmother oft says that which things happen must happen for a reason," Arwen smiled back. "And so, too, do I feel in my heart that fate shall come to pass one way or another. For example... because I walked this way today, I can remind you of your promise to help Father catalog poisons."

"Ai!" Aragorn cringed. "I had forgotten!"

"You can still make it on time if you make haste," Arwen offered. "Though take care to watch your step on the stairs."

"Yes, I know. You and Elladan and Elrohir have not let me forget that incident these past fifty years," Aragorn chuckled, and quickened his stride. "You have my gratitude, Lady Arwen!"

The Lady of Rivendell answered with only a wave and once Aragorn was safely on his way, she set about inspecting the shards of Narsil herself. She could not deny that her hopes had mirrored his own, and the Evenstar dearly wished that it would not be needed in Aragorn's lifetime.

She knew in her heart that it was not to be.

Arwen was Celebrían's daughter, Galadriel's granddaughter-- and too did she inherit their powers, among the strongest of all Ellethkind. She was not as skilled as the Lady of the Golden Wood (being many years less experienced), but she too was prone to the odd premonition from time to time.

It was the reason she had called a council in Rivendell this coming week, unsettled by the malaise that seemed to have taken root in the Great Greenwood, now Mirkwood. The King Dowager had writ her of the matter in secret, anxious words that belied his concern.

 _Lady of Rivendell_ , he had writ, _though it pains me to admit as much, I fear for the lands of Mirkwood._

_Each day, there are more and more reports of orc sightings; I suspect they come from the wasteland that once was Mordor. Spider hunting has become increasingly necessary, and we have lost more elleth and elf to poison and injury than ever before. My daughter, the Queen Tinnuthêl, holds a strong, offensive strategy that keeps the majority of our people safe... for now._

_She will say that I am overreacting. Perhaps, as some are wont to do in old age, that may be so-- unlikely as it may be. However, I would feel ill at ease without mentioning the smaller spiders, no bigger than your thumbnail, that have gotten as far as our inner sanctum. It reads to me an ill tiding._

_If the elves of Rivendell and Mirkwood are allied yet, I entreat you to help us find a way to bring the matter to an end. We are in great need._

And thus did Lady Arwen gather her council, representative of each of the races, summons quickly and aptly offered.

Eowyn of Rohan's people; Boromir of Gondor's. Princess Ganneleth from Mirkwood's elves, and herself from Rivendell's. She was unsure what weight the Forgemistress of the Dwarves bore in their society, but Mürwen, daughter of Sígdí, had been the only one among them to bother writing back, promising an envoy. The report was that Gandalf was running late, but almost certainly on his way.

Already, Aragorn of the Dúnedan and Frodo of the Shire's Hobbits had arrived, though the poor Halfling was still recovering from his unfortunate run-in with several of the larger spiders (and their poisons). It had taken Lord Elrond's most potent antidotes and several days of bedrest and bandage-changes before he had grown well enough to stand.

Indeed, thought Lady Arwen. The taint of the spiders had already spread unnaturally far.

* * *

"That will be the last of them... for now, at least," Elrond took a deep inhale and looked upon the shelf of poisons he had yet to find an antidote for.

"I pray the spiders will not develop further," Aragorn frowned, and rotated a jar so that its label faced forward. "Though I know the unlikeliness of that fate. Six of these poisons were discovered this week alone."

"Four of which you obtained from the spiders that poisoned young Frodo," Elrond reminded him.

"I only wish there had not been a need to retrieve the poisons at all," Aragorn shook his head bitterly. "Had I served better protection for he and his entourage..."

"What is done is done. You did the right thing by removing the poison sacs _before_ burning the remnants," Elrond tisked, glancing up and down the vast, vast shelves. "Many of these compounds are several times more dangerous if inhaled as smoke. It _is_ assuring to know that you listened when I told you such."

"I only hope I may someday be of help in Mirkwood," Aragorn smiled wistfully. "That it may be as it once was all those years ago."

"Would that you could give them hope, _Estel_ ," Elrond glanced at him, pursing his lips in thought. "The last blade that defeated a creature of great evil sits but a short walk away. With but half of the blade did Isildur strike off Sauron's hand--"

"I do not wish to take up the blade of Isildur," Aragorn spoke bitterly. "I am unworthy to wield her sword... I am unworthy to bear her name. I am a Ranger of the North, and no more-- for though I am of her blood, I cannot be Isildur."

"You mean that you are not a woman," Elrond tisked. "Perhaps it is of importance to the _adan_ , but Ellethkind does not cast so deep a divide between male and female. If you but bear the sword to fight a few of the more fearsome spiders, you would raise the morale of the Mirkwood elves tenfold! I do not doubt that the Queen Tinnuthêl would be grateful..."

"Lord Elrond... I beg it of you," Aragorn's eyes cast to the floor. "If you pity me, speak not of the Queen's approval-- for then, I might think it possible to achieve. Those days are of the past, now-- I know it to be hopeless."

"Lose not _Estel_ in becoming Aragorn, my child," Elrond chided, if but gentle. "Your suit is less hopeless than you think."

"Ai, would that it were... but she knew what she spoke," Aragorn sighed, ran his hand through his hair. "He is an elf deserving of a Princess... perhaps even worthy of our own beloved Evenstar. A ranger... can offer him nothing."

"I cannot sway you if you will not let yourself be swayed," spoken with fond exasperation. Elrond, then, abruptly snapped into a more businesslike tone, "In either case, there are but few hours of daylight remaining, and I am running low on several herbs. We won't be able to retrieve from the Northern gardens today; they must have time yet to recover from my last herb harvest."

"The Southern gardens are bare as well, from curing Frodo's poisoning," Aragorn admitted, "And the Eastern plot was nearly demolished after the time those scouts were ambushed two months ago."

"It is not yet wholly repaired, though some of our most talented Elleths have been working on it," Elrond frowned. "I had hoped not to use the Western gardens so soon... it has not been long since I was able to persuade our cooks to give up a portion of their food supply plots."

"The forest did not seem poorly supplied when I traveled through," he offered. Then, disappointed, "But it would be ill-conceived indeed for us to venture out so far unguarded."

"We'll arrange a group of herbalists and guards on the morrow," Elrond reluctantly sighed. "Until then... let us see what the Western gardens may offer us. Perhaps you shall be able to sneak a nibble of sweet basil, as you did when you were young."

"That child seems far from me now," Aragorn chuckled, bitter. "No-- I know of its medicinal uses, and would not dream of wasting even a single leaf now. Not when I know it is a key ingredient of the antidotes for poisons number fifty-five to seventy-one."

"In these bleak days, we must take joy where we can," said Elrond in his wisdom. "In either case, if you do not, surely the cooks will take a leaf or two for their dishes. They are far from the least vengeful of elleths."

"Then, with express permission from our Lord Elrond," Aragorn ventured a smile. "I shall."


	2. Chapter 2

"Lady Arwen!" the guardswoman cried, hurrying into the elleth lady's study. Magic sparked at her heels.

Arwen stood from her writing with all due urgency. "What is the matter, Galiena? Has something happened?"

"Spiders, milady-- they pursue an elf from along our Eastern border," Guard Recruit Galiena answered. To clarify, "One elf. Alone. By himself."

"By Elbereth," the Lady hastened to the nearest battlement. "Without the magic power of an elleth, it is a miracle he is still alive. Have you sent a rescue team? Did you know if he was injured?"

"He was uninjured last I spotted him. I called for a rescue team on my way up," a scroll seemed to materialize in her hand. "That's Lethiel's reply. They're on their way, milady."

"Send notice to my brothers, then, so they can see that a room is prepared for him as quickly as it can be done," Arwen sighed, relieved. Squadron Leader Lethiel was notorious for the strength of her spells; Arwen had no doubt that she could simply teleport the unfortunate elf out of danger if her squad could draw close enough. 

"We are expected to sustain some injury, Lady Arwen, but little that your own magic cannot heal," Galiena shook her head. "All the same... I would like leave to ask after your father about his antidotes."

"You have such leave, but be sure to return to your post quickly, lest the spiders draw too close," Arwen cautioned, and began to climb the stairs. "Even from such vantage, and with the benefit of my bloodline... I cannot heal every injury that comes to pass."

"It shall be done, my lady," and Galiena, running off-- undoubtedly appearing before Lord Elrond a mere second later.

Indeed, Lord Elrond himself was a particular anomaly in that he bore the slightest edge of magic over nearly all other male elves. Only Glorfindel came remotely close to he. But Arwen, born of her sorceress mother and mage-leaning father, Arwen held a magical strength that might even exceed Galadriel's once she was full-grown, though that would be several hundred years yet.

And so, with elven eyes, she gazed towards the East horizon, finding some of her soldiers already wounded. With the point of an elegant finger, she did her best to stitch those injuries away, one after the other-- but it was a great distance, and in her youth, Arwen's powers could prove unwieldy. Still, nearly all of the hurts that she could see vanished within moments, and only when she knew for certain that all which remained were beyond the scope of her power, only then did she turn to discern whom the elf might be.

She recognized the horse before she recognized the rider. It had been a gift of House Imladris nearly ten years ago.

"Prince Legolas," Arwen gasped, and prayed nothing dire had hastened his advance.

* * *

When the battle was through at the very last, Lord Elrond's antidotes distributed among the guardswomen in quick order, this homeliest of houses extended its hospitality to the Prince of Mirkwood-- youngest of its children, and the only boy among them.

Not too far above such labor, it was the Lady's ward Aragorn who drew Legolas his bath, dripping fragrant oils into the water so as to soothe the aches and pains of travel. The prince sunk in gratefully and almost immediately, eager to remove those discomforts from his skin.

"Do you have any particular aches that trouble you, my friend?" Aragorn queried, respectfully busying himself with an assessment of the bath salts he had brought. Though elves were not embarrassed by the naked form, the _adan_ most certainly were, and Aragorn among them.

"None," replied Legolas quietly. "Save for my heart... my sister Ganneleth gave her life that I might escape. She bade me run, Aragorn, and speak for Mirkwood at Arwen's council."

"Ganneleth was among Mirkwood's bravest," Aragorn lowered his eyes. "Elladan favored her suit dearly... he will be miserable to hear of her passing. But she must have known you were the faster rider, that you offered the best chance of your message arriving."

"Aye... though that does not mean I have to like it," Legolas sank his neck beneath the water. "The situation is more dire than even my father's letter conveyed. I am... I am unsure that my father still _lives_ , given Mirkwood's state when we parted its borders."

"If it pains you too greatly to speak of, then I shall ask no more," Aragorn acknowledged, and slipped a handful of salts into the bath. "But I would offer my ear, as well, if you feel capable of telling me the matter."

"My sisters and I... we thought father was worrying unnecessarily about the small spiders that occasionally got into our residential chambers," Legolas sighed. "But he was correct. They are small, and easy to miss-- particularly the ones that are still juvenile. But they are more toxic than even the fearsome Spiderking of Mudneck Glade, whose poison can dissolve the flesh of a mortal with little more than a touch."

"You have not been bitten?" Aragorn furrowed his brow in alarm.

"I have not," Legolas shook his head. "It is not a lethal poison, exactly... at least, in small doses. Our healers say it is a low-degree neurotoxin, the sort that the strongest elleths might even be able to fight off unaided. But an elleth with the right magical abilities can suffer a fate that is even worse than death... I am unsure you would recognize Tinnuthêl _at all_ if you were to see her now."

"The Queen of the Elves has fallen??" Aragorn's eyebrows shot upwards.

"Regretfully so," Legolas shuddered. "She calls herself Lolth, now, and the spiders... they follow her commands. Her telepathy started extending to them. Many among the elleth worship her as if she is the goddess of some odd cult; they exonerate her even above the _Valar_. And they call themselves Drow, after the accursed dark elves of old, and they engage in all varieties of cruel activity for entertainment-- they have tortured and even _killed_ elves on little more than a whim. And as for the elleths who have retained their sanity... they are executed. To serve as an example to all other dissenters."

"I do not know if I can fathom it," Aragorn admitted. "I knew the elleths of Mirkwood as noble, brave-hearted warriors... unrelenting in the field of battle, but genteel in peace."

"You speak aptly, Aragorn... I lived among them all my life, and I would have said the same." Legolas stared blankly at his knees. "But you did not see the horrors these among them committed... they spoke of taking the dead and feeding them _intentionally_ to the spiders! The captains of guard all ride spiders now, instead of horses... those noblest of animals were the first slain to feed their insatiable hunger. And... Tinnuthêl's husband, whom she has loved these past two thousand years... I cannot speak of the horrors done to him, Aragorn."

"I know not how to reconcile such a cursed image with the reign I knew before," Aragorn worried his lip, and at last lay a hand over Legolas' shoulder. "I can only imagine how difficult it must be for you. By Elbereth..."

"My father can do so better than I," Legolas sighed, leaned into that touch. "He stayed in hopes of returning Tinnuthêl to her senses... but he did not watch the way she killed her husband, when she loved him so dearly before. Ganneleth and I were persuaded completely-- Tinnuthêl is dead. All that is left is... Lolth... who has stolen her body."

"Aye, it is a bleak tiding... but lose not hope, Legolas," he squeezed the shoulder beneath his hand. "If you've brought a sample of the poison, I am certain Lord Elrond would be willing to seek out a cure. There may be a way to separate monster from woman yet."

"I pray that there is," Legolas pursed his lips. Blinked hard. Refused to weep. "Aragorn... I have missed you these past dozen years. It is but a moment in the timeline of an elf... but the desperate state of Mirkwood's army, and the spiders starting to black out every once-green tree... I have missed you, and your closeness to me."

"Legolas..." Aragorn cautioned.

"If you love me no longer, but say the word," Legolas bowed his head. "But if you ever loved me at all, I beg of you, do not deprive me the comfort of your company."

"Love you no longer? I am afraid such is impossible," Aragorn dared to brush his knuckles against a moon-soft cheek. "I can no more remove you from my heart than I can remove the heart entire. I love you as dearly as I ever did... I only fear that I shall overstep my bounds if you speak to me so warmly."

"I would offer myself to you completely, Aragorn... you have no bounds with me," Legolas captured his hand and kissed it. Aragorn did not know if that fair face was wet with bathwater or tears.

"There is but one," Aragorn glanced away. "We are not formally bound... and I would not profane that elven bond with my mortal flesh. In banishing me from Mirkwood, your sister's explanation was correct-- you are deserving of an immortal lady who can offer you comfort even after death. I am but a ranger _adan_... and I cannot."

"Then the time we have in Middle Earth is all the more precious," he exhaled, mourning that he could not forfeit his immortality like the Half-Elven. "My sister's ruling in this matter has effect no longer; I too am banished from Mirkwood now. I will ask Lady Arwen to permit me our suit again... I may only hope she holds me in contempt no longer."

"There is nothing of you worthy of hate," Aragorn chuckled. "Except that, perhaps, you have stolen her youngest ward's heart."

"A grave crime, indeed, in the Lady of Rivendell's eyes," Legolas answered with a slight smile. "It is, after all, one of the greatest treasures of Imladris."

"Not too valuable to be delegated the task of pulling bathwater for weary travelers," he replied, and took delight in the soft, answering laughter.


	3. Chapter 3

The council gathered, in the following days, each member filtering in slowly. Gandalf, first, appearing after a brief mishap, his spellweaving the only manner in which he had escaped from the Spider-king's trap. Then, fleet-riding Eowyn of the Rohan Shieldmaidens, and, after a time, Lord Boromir and his entourage as well. Galadriel had assured that she would watch on through her mirror, or perhaps already had, and in this manner it was Mürwen of the Dwarves who arrived last of all, covered in a shocking amount of blood and viscera.

It was bespoke that Dwarven females did but scarcely differ from the males, and Mürwen was no exception. Her beard, though somewhat discolored from the blood, hung nearly past her middle, and she wore enough chain and plate to obscure her bosom as if it had never been.

"Ran into spiders," said gruffly, by way of explanation. "Damn trees are full of 'em."

With loud protestations, and no small amount of urging, she had been hastened away to bathe-- "Or at least wash away the remnants of spider, if nothing else," Arwen suggested. "Some poisons can eat even through metal. We must take every precaution."

"Just like an elleth," one of her guards muttered to the next. "Thinking the Forgemistress' own armor would succumb to a mere spider-poison!"

Legolas cleared his throat, "I think that the _elves_ , who have borne the brunt of these attacks, know more about the effects of spider poison than dwarves who have been _hiding_ underground!"

"Aye, like the elves have been _ignoring_ our own people turning dark!" he hollered back.

"There will be time enough to speak of it when we _meet for the council_ ," Gandalf interjected, thwapping both of them soundly on the rear ends with his staff. "The poisons of the world work in mysterious and strange ways... we know not how _anyone's_ armor will be affected. In any case... it is a pleasure to see you once more, Lady Mürwen."

"If only the circumstances were better, friend Gandalf," she nodded. She frowned at her outspoken guard, "As Gimli spoke, our tidings be dire. But we'll discuss them in full before the entire council. No sooner. And all of us who fought and killed in this last battle, _all of us_ will bathe if Gandalf believe the blood to be cause for harm."

"It is settled, then," Arwen smiled, relieved. "I am afraid we have never hosted dwarves before, but if you require anything in particular for bathing..."

"Settled indeed, Lady Rivendell," Mürwen snorted. "Some o' these lot never bathed head-to-toe in their life. Not all at once, leastways. Point us your nearest river or stream, a bit o' soap, and see if we can't get these boys some of what elven drink that's closest to ale. They'll need it for the trauma."

"I, er. I see," Arwen faltered momentarily, having never tasted ale herself, and having never personally been traumatized by bathing. "I shall ask Aragorn; I am sure he will be able to make a reasonable approximation."

Gandalf chuckled deeply, "Allow me to join you and yours at the water, lest things get out of hand. I admit I am curious as to which beard balms the dwarves are using these days... mine has been feeling more brittle than usual."

The dwarves were all at last bathed and introduced to several kegs of Rivendell's closest approximation to ale, and though they were in unanimous agreement that the two were nothing alike, most were satisfied enough that they were capable of drowning their sorrows.

And so, with her men settled in, the Forgemistress and the Lady of Rivendell set off down into that vault where rested the remnants of a blade, one of dwarven make.

"Narsil," Mürwen shook her head, momentarily disbelieving. "So it is here."

"Indeed... the blade that, even at half-strength, brought about Sauron's defeat," Arwen lay a gentle hand on the pedestal. "Of course, you do not need my leave to touch it... it is the craft of your ancestor, and though Rivendell keeps it, the owners of this blade are many."

"Have you touched it yet?" Mürwen glanced at her, curious.

"Nay. These last generations, the hilt has been touched only by Isildur's Heiresses," she shook her head. "And Isildur's latest heir... he does not feel himself worthy of the blade. He has not lain hand on it at all."

"Then I won't touch it 'til he has," Mürwen nodded solemnly. "He's a Man, isn't he? The one called Aragorn, who offered us the kegs."

"Yes, you speak correctly," Arwen turned her head, intrigued by her interest.

"The last time the blade was borne into battle by a Man, and not a Woman, it was a whole blade," Mürwen narrowed her eyes. "You don't intend to send him into battle with half a sword, _do ye_ , Lady Arwen?"

"It is my hope the blade can be reforged," Arwen admitted.

Mürwen gave a slow nod. "Only time folks ever seem to need a dwarf is when something's got to be fixed. I figured that as your purpose for inviting me."

"One of them, perhaps," she answered, and stared at the shards. "But I know in my heart of hearts that all the races of Middle Earth must cooperate if we have a hope of conquering this evil, if it is indeed what I think it may be. The Elves will be doomed without the Dwarves just as certainly as the Dwarves shall be doomed without Elves... and both, indeed, shall be doomed without the Adan and Hobbits."

"Hah... if you believe it can happen, then I'll wish you luck. You'll need it," she crossed her arms. "If you got a forge hot enough, I'll repair that blade. But I won't see my work going to waste... Elendil's Heir must lay hand upon it first, and swear to wield it in battle as his ancestors did."

"If he does so, then there is no doubt in my mind," Arwen smiled mysteriously. "He shall."

* * *

The council was gathered later that afternoon with as short notice as possible, each of the races bearing more or less equal representation. Frodo of the Hobbits, still weak from his poisoning, had to be aided from his bed by Samwise Gamgee.

"The Council of Rivendell offers the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain the first right to speak," Arwen began, passing a speaking-stave to their representative.

"Lady Arwen," Mürwen acknowledged curtly. "All of ye here must know that it isn't only the world above that's suffered from the scourge of these dark powers. We been fighting away the goblins of the mountain for generations... my weapons today, and my ma's weapons before mine, and her ma's weapons before hers. We have a way of treating metal 'specially for slaying these Dark Ones... aye, we do, but then the goblins started growin' teeth."

"They don't need to hear the whole tale," Gimli scowled-- still the second representative among them, even after his earlier outburst.

Mürwen cast a strange look upon him, and nodded. "The point of the matter is the goblins started biting our folk. Catching them unawares. Within a day, their hair would go white. Within a week, their skin would go blacker than anything natural for a dwarf, going dry and hard... like an old, old corpse. And then... when their eyes go read as hot coals, they lash out. Start bitin' every other dwarf they can get their hands on. Nothin' we say can bring reason to 'em, so we cast 'em from our halls best we could. They live among each other, now, takin' sport in kidnapping dwarf children to torture or eat or convert into one of their own..."

"We call them Duergar," Gimli finished, bowing his head out of respect for those lost.

"Then it is indeed the case that the dwarves have been suffering, too," Legolas seemed faintly apologetic. "May I speak next?"

"Aye, lad, if ye understand now the dwarves be no cowards," Mürwen nodded cautiously.

"I am most deeply sorry for my earlier comments," Legolas admitted. "Particularly since the like-- almost _exactly_ the like-- has happened in my own home of Mirkwood. The spiders have been occupying our land, conquering it glade by glade for as long as I have lived. Though Ellethkind has made strides in defeating them in some centuries past, today... today, spiders no larger than your thumb can bite an elleth or elf, and just as Lady Mürwen spoke... their hair goes white, their skin turns black as ash, and their eyes glow red."

"That is not an unfamiliar description to you, is it... Lady Eowyn and Lord Boromir?" Gandalf spoke poignantly.

"I know none among my people who bear such a description," Eowyn began, furrowing her brow. "Though I cannot deny it sounds familiar..."

"It is a description held in legend," Boromir knew immediately. Bitterly, "I have heard it a hundred-- nay, a _thousand_ times. The Nine Kings of Old, the Ring-Wraiths... they say that is why a Man should not rule without a Queen."

"It is a foolish legend," Eowyn asserted, realizing. "And bears very little use now, except to frighten small children. Many kings, in truth, hold a throne in their own right without becoming Wraiths... my Uncle Théoden is one such king."

"Nevertheless," Gandalf cautioned. "Once is happenstance... twice, coincidence. But thrice... _thrice_ is a pattern."

Aragorn pursed his lips. Ventured, "Four... times. He did not have much hair when I captured him, but it was mostly white. And his eyes... they would shift from red to blue, and back again, and that was how I knew if that day's travel would be a difficult one. But his skin had sunken in like the dead, and taken upon it the color of gray ash..."

"The creature Gollum," Frodo lifted a hand, too exhausted to say much more. "My Uncle Bilbo would tell tales of that creature he met in the caves..."

"A creature which was once a Hobbit, known as Sméagol," Gandalf agreed, and pursed his lips. After a momentary pause, "I, too... I must confess that I knew of a wizard of similar description. Though he is now long, long dead."

"Whom?" Eowyn prodded, deeply concerned.

"You will have known him as Sauron," Gandalf sighed, and turned about, itching to smoke his pipe. "But he was once a being... not so different from myself."

Immediately, the council fell into an uproar-- whatever power that had corrupted their people had been strong enough to even touch the likes of Gandalf and his ilk, and that was cause for outright _panic_.

"My sister--"

"Do ye say the dwarves be doomed!?"

"How can I protect--"

"... and Gondor will never again accept--"

"Uncle Bilbo said--"

"DO NOT PANIC," Arwen's voice, calm but firm, conquered them all. Silence came over the crowd. "I have spoken to my grandmother Galadriel on this matter, and... though it was a mere suspicion before, I feel now more certain in the theory. Those of us who have heard the Simarillion's tale will know that, once upon a time, Sauron too served a master... but this master once had another servant. A servant who broke away from that servitude. A dark being, perhaps even darker than Morgoth himself, a being whose hunger for all things that live exceeded all else... a being whose favored form was that of an enormous spider."

"No," Legolas breathed. "Ungoliant."

"The Mother of Spiders? She is but a tale we tell our children, warning them from the blighted lands of Mordor," Eowyn shook her head. "The legend-tellers say she most likely died... either from starvation, or from growing hungry enough to devour _herself_. Nothing grows in Mordor."

"Spiders," said Legolas after a moment. "When I was little... they would only attack our lands from the South, when only the vast wastes of Mordor lay there. _Spiders_ grow in Mordor, and I have no doubt that Ungoliant had no qualms about eating her own children. But she was mother of many, and her daughters could just as well rule in her place..."

"It... would explain many things about the Stewardesses and their efforts to reclaim those lost lands," Boromir frowned. "How there were reports of bushes disappearing, pulled up by their roots and all. How even Sauron's forts began to disappear, as if they'd never been."

"It's a giant spider," Gimli scowled. "I say we charge in there and kill it!"

"One does not simply walk into Mordor," Boromir bit.

"Ungoliant is a creature of darkness... some say she is the daughter of darkness _itself_ ," Gandalf, having given in to his pipe, puffed out a breath of smoke. "If your theory is correct-- and it well may be-- she will have been eating Sauron's treasures for millennia. The fallen bodies, the progeny of his first army... and I have no doubt that Sauron's forts rest now in her unending stomach."

"A creature that devours masterpieces in stone," Mürwen pursed her lips. "I didn't think it possible to embody so many evils in one form."

"You would be correct," Aragorn offered. "The legend says she shifts forms as easily as a person changes clothes. That she hears each word a child of hers hears. Ungoliant and her brood are many-- and, indeed, one and the same."

"Vast and fearsome is that darkness indeed," Arwen shook her head. "But there is, too, the light of hope."

"There is darkness in the halls of my own home," Legolas straightened, deeply upset. "Where may there be hope?"

"Here, in Rivendell... in a chamber not too far from where we stand," Arwen answered. "There lie the Shards of Narsil, the last masterwork blade to slay a creature of great darkness. And here, among our own number... its bearer. Descendant of Isildur."

"Isildur left no lines in Rohan," Eowyn seemed perplexed. With a sideways glance at Boromir, "And... if I am not mistaken, the Line of the Stewardess is not related to her, either."

"You speak correctly," Boromir nodded. They both turned their gazes to the one other _adan_ among them. "And Isildur was part-elven, like the Dúnedan... wasn't she?"

"I am not Isildur," Aragorn spoke. "I cannot _be_ Isildur."

"I am not asking you to be," Arwen looked upon him softly. "I am calling for a quest, and here is my proposal: while the Women of Middle Earth divert the attention of Ungoliant's major forces, a small, stealthier team should work their way into Mordor. She will know of the blade's power; she will know of how it slew Sauron. And... she shall wish to eat it before it can slay her as well. This will be our goal."

"Not everything can-- or _should_ \-- be eaten," Mürwen frowned, disliking the sound of her ancestor's masterpiece disappearing down a spider's maw.

"A blade as holy and bright as Narsil? I daresay it should not," Gandalf harrumphed. "But Ungoliant has never had the thought that something  _should not_ be eaten. The blade would cut and burn her away from the innards out. Like a poison."

"That is my hope," a smile crossed Arwen's features. "But we must convince her that the blade is a threat... and we must ensure that it is consumed only by her main body, whether it be the Ungoliant original or whichever daughter is her dark heiress."

"A spider with its head removed does not easily survive," Boromir nodded. "I can see a sense of logic in that."

"A member of the line Isildur would lend the quest additional credence, though perhaps it would not be ultimately necessary," Arwen walked to Aragorn, laid her hand on his shoulder. "I will not force your hand if you still do not wish to wield it."

"I..." Aragorn started. "I... require time to think."

"And time you shall have, if but little. It would take several days to plan such a mission," the Lady of Rivendell nodded. "But do those among us agree with this plan?"

"Aye!" cried Eowyn, the first to agree. "The Shieldmaidens of Rohan will stand by their Rivendell sisters. Our guard shall not falter-- and we shall buy Narsil's quest more time than any!"

"Aye!" agreed Boromir. "I'm not authorized speak for Gondor on the whole, but you shall have _my_ sword, however you wish to use it."

"Aye, then," Mürwen nodded once, firmly. "Someone has to supply the weaponry. I'll get to forgin' those special weapons... if your spiders are as dark as goblins, they'll _double_ your strength."

"And someone has to supply the fighting!" Gimli harrumphed. "You'll have my axe."

"And my bow!" Legolas declared suddenly. "I am no mage, like my sisters... but I, too, must fight for Mirkwood."

"Worry little of such things, Legolas. For this Quest shall have _my_ magic," Gandalf tapped his stave.

"I do not have much to offer, I'm afraid," Frodo looked askance. "But if none other volunteers... _I_ will take the blade to Mordor."

"Then we are in agreement," Arwen announced. "Let us depart for the evening meal; those of us who wish to begin planning immediately may meet me in the library on the ground floor afterwards. There is little time to lose."

A murmur of agreement passed between them all, at last finished with the negotiations. But, suddenly-- the Chief Heiress of the Dúnedain rode in mere minutes upon the finishing of the council though she had been assigned to scouting at the border.

"You are early, Ecthelhel," even the Lady of Rivendell seemed surprised. "What manner of charge hastens back your arrival?"

"Spiders, Lady Arwen. Crossing the Misty Mountains," she tightened the reins of her anxious horse. "Spiders, with all manner of creatures riding upon them. The forms of Goblins, Dwarves... even Elves. They are perhaps a week's travel from here at footspeed... but I know not how quickly a giant spider can cross land."

"Very quickly," answered Legolas almost immediately. "And they travel mountains as rapidly as they travel open plains. They are not so hindered by gravity."

"Three days away, at best," Aragorn seemed troubled. "And your fellow scouts?"

"It was Lethiel who spotted the advance and sent us notice," Ecthelhel nodded. "They should return here in short order, Strider."

The Forgemistress turned solemnly to Arwen, "If ye care to have those new weapons, best let your Elven smiths know to start stoking the forge now. I'll eat of whatever fills most quickly and be along."

This, at least, Arwen was capable of answering. "Tell the cooks that I have recommended our Lembas. They are but small in appearance... but extremely filling."

They hastened away, and Gimli, without needing even a nod of encouragement, set forth to gather the entourages for battle. Gandalf and Frodo had already begun speaking amongst themselves.

"I'll get my women to make sure our horses will be ready," Eowyn announced, nodding at each of them.

"We'll need antidotes for poisoned wounds..." Legolas murmured.

Aragorn bowed before the Lady Dúnedain, and agreed, "I must excuse myself as well... Legolas, perhaps you can goad the Northern herb patch into growing a little more quickly?"

"It does not quite work that way," Legolas admitted, "But I can try."

And so, as they hastened off, Boromir was left at last with Ecthelhel of the Dúnedain. He gave her a wry grin, "I suppose, lacking the knowledge of such herb lore, I should pull you a bath?"

"The Dúnedain are accustomed to lengthy travel... I shall not need a bath," Ecthelhel chuckled, swinging herself from her steed. "And even if I had, I would not dream of asking the Stewardess of Gondor's heir to do something so trivial for me."

"You would be wrong in that respect. Before their line faded, the Queens of Gondor would ask the Stewardess' son to fill their bathwater oft," Boromir shook his head. Recalling that she had held aspirations for Isildur's heir the last they met, "You would make an excellent Queen, if such were your choosing... perhaps you would even consider letting a Man like myself retain his title?"

"Aye, perhaps... had I still held desire for Strider," she shook her head. "Though I doubt not he would have served an excellent Chief Consort of the Dúnedain. It is, perhaps, my mother's hope... his mother's bloodline, after all, is the rightful Chieftesship."

"And," Boromir's brow creased, perplexed. "What is your _own_ hope?"

"To inherit the title of my mother, if Strider does not have a daughter first." Ecthelhel winked, "And perhaps I should like to aim for a Steward's heart... though I am afraid I shall be too occupied with my duties as a Dúnedain to be anything resembling a Stewardess."

"You are increasingly forward, madam," Boromir flushed to his beard. "In Gondor, you ask a man's mother before even _implying_ such a thing!"

"Aye, but is it not courtly to make one's advances known?" she backed off with a rougish grin. "And I _did_ ask your mother. Except she refused to consider the suit, and had me kicked from the castle before even glancing upon my face."

"You are terrible," he huffed, and abruptly swept away.

"Ah," Ecthelhel sighed, gazing at his retreating back. "And here I thought he'd been warming up to me."


	4. Chapter 4

When they arrived at the Northern gardens, free of any eavesdropping ears, Aragorn felt safe to look upon the fair elf openly, his hair seeming to wreath golden in the redness of the setting sun. His beauty as he knelt to the soil seemed unfathomable for a moment, and though it was spoken that the Evenstar was the most beautiful of elleths, he too was positive that Legolas was the most glorious elf.

"You are watching me," Legolas glanced upwards, if but brief.

"A favored pastime of mine," Aragorn smiled back. But such lightheartedness faded from him in a moment. "It seems we shall have but little of such joy in the coming days..."

"Indeed," the Prince of Elves sighed. He patted a plant gently. "This patch is still recovering, but they could spare you about half their leaves. Do your best not to injure or pick the stem--  that growth is not yet recovered."

"They have my gratitude, then," Aragorn knelt and began gently clipping a few leaves. Hesitated, then: "Legolas, I wished to ask your counsel on the matter... Dúnedain will of course contribute to Arwen's plan. But I am certain that I shall be of best use here in Imladris, in the healing-halls, and not as... the mock heir of Isildur... as Arwen prescribed."

"You are far from a stranger to swordsmanship," Legolas cast a glance aside. "And you have completed each trial of a Dúnedain leader just as surely as your mother did. You are far from an incompetent warrior."

"Neither was King Elendil anything less than the greatest swordsman of all men," Aragorn sighed, and glanced down at his gatherings. "And yet, with only half of his blade at her hand, it was Isildur who slew Sauron, and proved herself the rightful Queen. I cannot even bring myself to touch the sundered sword for fear I shall disappoint it by being more like Elendil than Isildur."

"You can disappoint no-one," Legolas looked straight in his eye. "Not even a sword. It served many great men and many great kings before you-- and furthermore, 'tis a sword. It is said that all things in _arda_ carry a song, and though I do not have the ability to hear a blade's, not even that sword of legend can possibly be more judgmental than the poppy garden in Mirkwood. And even they adored you."

"I did not know that the flowers had such strong opinions," Aragorn chuckled. "What of you?"

"What about me?"

Suddenly solemn, "Will I disappoint you if I do not take the sword?"

"Perhaps a little... but Aragorn, my _Estel_ , do not misunderstand me," Legolas professed. "I had never expected the need for Narsil's blade to happen in your lifetime, and it is not the action of taking the blade that matters. I will only be disappointed that you do not yet see how great a man you are. That you do not yet see yourself as I do."

"I am afraid you may be biased in that opinion, love," Aragorn brushed his hand softly.

"Lady Arwen sees it," Legolas glanced down at the soil. "She turned down my suit for your hand again."

"She has?" Aragorn started.

"She said that as long as you remain her ward, she shall never approve of it," Legolas sighed bitterly. "But then she said she would have no protest if you were to become a man of your own right. But you have been of age these past sixty years... and I know not what game she plays."

"It is an old game, indeed," Aragorn went silent for a moment. He tied a bundle of herbs, then spoke, "The Heiresses of Isildur, when they come of age, lay their hand upon the blade of Narsil and swear an oath-- about their duty, or perhaps their aspirations. In that moment, they are no longer wards of Rivendell, but Ranger-Chiefs... there is no such tradition for male members of Isildur's line."

"That is not so strange... a male has never been Isildur's Heir before," Legolas turned his head slightly.

"Before _myself_ , in Arwen's eyes," Aragorn ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Whether she calls me Heir Isildur or Heir Elendil, it is clear what she wishes of me. And now... she holds hostage her approval of our bonding."

"She always has been the sort who finds a way to achieve her goals," Legolas softly re-adjusted those mussed strands. "It is why so much of Mirkwood laid faith in this council before... well, _before_."

Aragorn let out a slow exhale, "I'm being ridiculous, aren't I?"

"You said it first," Legolas chuckled.

"All that stands between our bonding is one sword, and an oath. Or, indeed, merely the hilt of half a sword!" Aragorn shook his head at his own folly. With a note of self-depreciating humor, "If I cannot do so little for you, then I will be twice as unworthy of your affections."

"Though this oath that shall allow us to wed gladdens my heart," Legolas looked upon him fondly. "Twice zero is still zero. You are always worthy of my affections."

"Even if I should leave you with the rest of these herbs to seek out Arwen, that she may witness this oath?"

Laughter spilled forth from his lips. "Especially then! Hasten away, my love Aragorn, and we shall wed even before dinner is had!"

* * *

And so, with a much lighter heart did Aragorn and Arwen make their way to that chamber below, to set to right at last hand upon blade, that hand upon hand may be soon to follow.

"It is a wonder that you should change your mind so quickly," Arwen smiled, slightly sly.

"You know why I have changed it," Aragorn leveled.

"Knowing that the trees redden because winter comes does not make one less amazed by their sight," replied the clever Lady. "Come. You must lay your hand upon the hilt of the blade. Merely lay it there, and hear what it must tell you."

"Tell me?" Aragorn seemed dubious.

"I am not of Isildur's blood, myself," Arwen explained. "So I know not for certain the words' meaning. But your mother and many others before her said the blade sang to their blood."

"And if it does not sing to mine?" Aragorn questioned.

"We shall not know what happens until it happens," was her cryptic answer. "Set your hand upon the hilt. Begin your oath."

He placed his hand atop the hilt, as if prepared to pick it up-- but did not. A line of tension flowed out of him when he felt nothing, heard nothing, upon that touch.

A bit anticlimactically, he began the oath: "I swear--"

> And the earth moved out from under him, and then he found himself upon the floor in pain, great pain unlike any other he had felt before. Not even the most toxic of spider-bites had felt so awful. Aragorn tried to make his body move, tried to make himself do something, anything. 
> 
> He could feel his life seeping from his very flesh, and wondered if this was what it was like to be unworthy of Narsil.
> 
> But then, a shift as something smooth and long-- the flat of a sword?-- was slid out from beneath him. It was then that Aragorn realized he was neither in Rivendell anymore, nor was he wholly _Aragorn_. The bearer of the broken blade was instantly recognizable: sable hair bound up and over her helm, strong features that Aragorn had seen upon his own face more than once. _Isildur_ , he thought, and with the mind that was not wholly his: _Daughter_.
> 
> She said something, lifting her voice. A pain stabbed Aragorn's, Elendil's chest. Neither could make out what she had said. But in the next moment, she struck, and Elendil's chest filled with something else instead-- pride.
> 
> But a darkness hung over her, a blackness that wrapped about her shoulder, seemed to guide her hand. Elendil's body tried to speak, to warn her of it, but he had not the strength. She dropped the half of Narsil she had taken up. Bent down and picked up one of the fingers she had cut-- the one that wore a glistening, shining gold ring.
> 
> As if he were hearing it from underwater, a familiar voice cut across-- Lord Elrond. "You must throw it in Mount Doom. Only then may Sauron truly be destroyed."
> 
> The dark miasma reared up behind Isildur as if a spider of mist, preparing to strike her down where she stood. Aragorn tried to push this body to do scream, to twitch, even to wheeze. He only succeeded in making Elendil's vision blur, and begin going fuzzily black at the edges.
> 
> "It is but a ring," she frowned. "And I intend to have it as a reminder of this battle."
> 
> "It is no different than having Sauron himself among us," a third voice. Even Elendil wondered hazily who that might be.
> 
> But his daughter's voice stuck to him, even in this last, perhaps beyond last moment. The darkness tightened around her until she nearly became it herself, "It is a piece of gold, and proof of my victory!"
> 
> "Your father fell to destroy it!" Lord Elrond cried, and at that, the grey cloud around Isildur's throat loosened its grip, and she cast a glance back at her father's broken body. The crater in his chest where Sauron had struck him.
> 
> "Father..." her voice softened, began to grieve.
> 
> And with the last of his strength, the last mark he would ever impart on Middle Earth, King Elendil mouthed: Throw.
> 
> She did.

Breath flowed into Aragorn's lungs-- the lungs that belonged in his true body-- and he finished his sentence. "I swear... to take the blade to Mordor. That the darkness of Ungoliant's gluttony may _perish_."

"Is that what you truly wish to swear?" Arwen's eyes twinkled, and sable hair flowed over her shoulders. Aragorn, who had been educated enough in history, recalled faintly that she and Isildur were something like cousins, removed twenty-some odd times. The resemblance was uncanny.

"Aye," replied Aragorn, his resolve hardened. "I swear it."

"Then you have truly heard the song of Isildur within the blade," Arwen smiled.

"Nay," he answered, but not as bitterly as he might have before. "I am not Isildur. I did not become Isildur, and I shall never be Isildur. I am an Heir of Elendil... just as you said."

"The bloodline is the same," cited Arwen wisely, and Aragorn nearly laughed with relief.

"It is, indeed, Lady of Rivendell," he replied, and later that eve, there was a twelve-minute bonding ceremony in the Northern gardens, Legolas' unfinished herb-picking work laying not ten feet away. For their wedding-feast, only the leftovers of the council dinner they had all skipped, eaten cold or lightly reheated, and for a gift-- Lady Mürwen, arriving several hours late, but bearing the reforged Narsil as a gift. Andúril, it was redubbed, a name meaning "Flame of the West"-- for it was the weapon that would end the blight that had laid into the East.

Not a minute of this joy could be wasted, not when spiders rode for Rivendell that very second. And, too, did they heed the wise advice of that greatest of healers:

"You have found joy where you could. As I spoke you would," Lord Elrond nodded from his watch. "It is ever nice to know that you have been listening to me."

"As all children listen to their fathers, I imagine," Aragorn answered, and did not forget Isildur's last word to his daughter.

He had little doubt of who, exactly, had convinced Arwen to allow their joining at all.


	5. Chapter 5

The hasty preparations for battle commenced, though, almost immediately following that ceremony-- and, too, more cohesive plans about the stealth mission across Middle Earth. Arwen had said it was perhaps not enough time, but Lady Ecthelhel had always hated having to wait.

"Perhaps there is one place we may agree," Boromir admitted. "Three days has been bad enough. The next hours are going to be torture."

"You do not find patrols exciting?" Ecthelhel looked at him quizzically.

"It shall take hours for the fighting to reach the North Wall, where I am stationed," he said irritably. "I hate to hear the sounds of battle and remain at my facing's post."

"You shall not have to wait as long as Aragorn and the rest of the Dúnedain, at the West Wall," Ecthelhel comforted. "You may even see battle before Gandalf with Rivendell's own fighters at the South!"

"Hie thee away, madam," his expression was petulant. "For you stand the ranged guard at East with Lady Arwen herself, the Shieldmaidens of Rohan lined up by the ground. You shall be among the first to see the enemy and shoot."

"The very first indeed, if I have my way about it," Ecthelhel's eyes twinkled merrily. "Shall I say I shoot in your name?"

Boromir made a faintly disgusted expression. "You, Lady Dúnedain, are _impossible_. I am leaving for my post."

"You do not wish to while the time with me any longer?" she cocked her head. "Very well. I wish you all success in battle, Boromir of Gondor!"

He did not deign to give so strange a comment a farewell, and hastened to his station a half-hour early. The Chief Heiress was a dangerous sort for a man like himself-- a scoundrel with entirely too much charm (and ego) for her own good. Exactly the sort of suitor his father had warned him made for a poor match... but, well, _Denethor_  had married the Stewardess of Gondor, so he had taught his sons a thing or two about advantageous marriage.

The patrol line began to filter in slowly over the next fifteen minutes or so. They were uncertain when Ungoliant's Vanguard would arrive, only fairly positive that it would be sometime that day-- the next two hours, perhaps, or the next fifteen.

But, suddenly, far earlier than projected, before the entire patrol had even gotten prepared, an alarm signal sounded... not from the East Wall, as predicted, but from Aragorn's men in the West.

Boromir's face went ashen, and he remembered Arwen's own plan for this war. A large army in front to distract the true foes sneaking in from the back. And here was the same strategy, altered and reversed against their own. The enormous army marching forth from the hills had been a ruse, and hurriedly, several of Arwen's ranged fighters ran about in an attempt to fight the Duergar that had besieged the battalion.

Drow fell upon the North Wall next, and Boromir's men launched into battle with their infantry, their cavalry dotting the ranks, and only seeming to grow more numerous as each moment passed. Boromir gave the signal that he had been attacked; blowing shrilly into a whistle. Seconds later, from the South, where Goblins had suddenly sprung up from beneath the ground, and then, with great alarm, the first cluster among many of the main forces besieging the East.

They were ill-equipped to fight a battalion that had been formed of exclusively elves, or creatures which had once been elves, at any rate. It was a grueling fight, blade-to-blade, and the increasing spider-cavalry made things little better, huge, hulking bodies of sleek carapace and vicious, fearsome drow-mages striking fear into their mortal hearts. And when the infantry had thinned, Boromir's men gave pause, as if suspended in time. The Stewardess' son stabbed yet another enemy, and turned to determine what was wrong.

"What's happening?" Boromir shouted, unable to see from the back lines. "Why has everyone stopped--"

And then, his eyes widened as the terrified soldier in front of him was cut down. Horror writ itself across his features as he realized this was not merely an elleth _riding_ a spider.

Her face was beautiful, with her high forehead and tall, lilting ears, her sharp cheekbones. But where a normal woman may have had but two eyes, this one had eight, blinking across her forehead and ebbing onto the bone of her cheek. Where she should have had legs, she wore a thorax, her body melting into that of a spider's at the waist, her flesh jaggedly growing into the exoskeleton. The fangs at her groin salivated poison, threatening to strike, to _kill_. The hairy spines beneath shuddered and expanded, each line pointing to Boromir.

"Where is he?" a voice like poison itself whispered in his mind. "The Prince... of Mirkwood?"

She stroked Boromir's cheek with a hairy foreleg nearly a man's height in length. The clawed end cut into his skin like a dagger, leaving the tiniest of scratches; the sticky ends left a gooey residue on his face.

"I won't answer anything!" Boromir swore, pointing his sword to her and desperately willing his hand to cease its shaking. He lashed out, struck at the monster.

A ghastly sound, equal parts laughter and screeching, spilled from her lips. She smacked the blade from Boromir's hand with little effort, and drew closer, seizing him between her forceps, bringing him close to her. She forced him with her hand-- her five-fingered, normal hand-- to look her in the eye.

It felt as if a thousand probing thorns had pierced his brain at once. His eyes burned with pain, but try as he might, he could not shut them, only fall deeper into the fathomless black of those eight eyes. His memories flashed before him, forcibly bringing to front his recollections of the formation assignments. She dropped him, and he dizzily fell to the floor.

"The battalion of the Lady Rivendell herself," the beast hissed. "She spares him no protection... save one. Thank you ever so much for your cooperation... _Boromir_."

And with a shrieking cackle, the spider-woman jerked the rear of her thorax forth, and buried the man in thick lengths of spider silk, tightening, winding itself around his skin like rope until he could not see, he could not breathe.

"You shall be fun to play with... if you survive until the battle's end," the venom seeped into his mind once more. "And if not... I suppose you would make a tasty snack."

She left Boromir there in the preservation of her cocoon, surveyed her warriors as they decimated the forces of the North Wall battalion. With a sharp though, like a whistle, they joined by her side. Rivendell never stood a chance, thought she, and with an easy step, her battalion climbed atop the nearest wall, leaving faint spots of web-slime within their wake. She knocked away the last guard upon that wall as if he were little more than tissue, and then, clambered back down into the gardens at the heart of Rivendell.

Eight feet, and then, eight hundred landed in the gardens, where the herbs spoke of the wedding there held not so very long ago. A hiss of rage, and she spat poison, spun steel-hard silk over that entire earth before going about her business, scuttling across the village where elf children whimpered and hid at the sight of them, moving through on their mission. They would be easy pickings later, she thought, and harried instead to the base of Arwen's tower, so called because it was from that perch the Evenstar ruled all of Imladris. The spiders would unseat her tonight.

An arrow flew down and struck one of her slower soldier's exoskeleton. _Legolas_ , she thought, and with a screech of rage ascended with all due fury, plummeting over the battlement with her spinner raised and spitting venom. Her soldiers, without a thought or care for their wounded comrade, thus too ascended and engaged several of the guards stationed there. All archers, or long-distance magicians. Few would survive.

With all her deftness, she captured the Prince of Mirkwood, pinned him to the floor using only six of her eight legs. The fangs that had become her groin breathed, and the scent of putrid malevolence dripped into Legolas' hair.

"You shall never win, you _monsters_ ," Legolas spat, breathing hard, shaking.

"Oh my," said the spider to her fly. She grinned, predatory. "Is that any way to greet your older sister? And after I traveled so far to see you."

"No..." horror struck Legolas' face, and it was as delicious as she had imagined. "Tinnuthêl..."

"Do not forget, Legolas, I have grown out of that childish nickname," she fairly screeched with derisive humor. "Look upon your Sister and Queen in her full glory as Lolth, _Goddess_ of the Elves!"

"May the Valar strike you down for it," Legolas prayed, struggling against her hold. But she was at least thrice his weight now, her arachnid thorax more dexterous than any two-legged body could hope to be, and he could not free himself.

"They can try," Lolth smiled, exposing that fangs hung in her mouth as well. "You always were the rebellious one, brother... and now you have run from home without your Queen's leave! It is a good thing I am so _merciful_. Perhaps, if you stop struggling, I will even wait until we are back home to begin your punishment."

She bound him to the floor, then, lines of spider silk around his ankles, his waist. But before she could spin further, suddenly-- a blast, magic pushing her back. The flash of a sword against her side, a deep scratch laid over her leg, and an axe upon the other one, cracking her exoskeleton.

"Tinnuthêl," said Lady Arwen, her eyes narrowed. White, white magic gathered in her hands. "You've changed even more than I expected."

"I've grown," Lolth countered sharply. "Which is more than I can say for the Lady Evenstar. How old are you now? Still not yet of age?"

Offended by the offense to her Lady, Ecthelhel rammed her sword into Lolth's leg once more with the aim of severing it. "And she is still _twice_ the ruler you are!"

Mürwen roared her agreement on the other side, and yanked her axe from the spider's shell.

With but a leg to spare for each, the Dúnedain and Dwarf were batted away carelessly, "You still let others do your fighting for you, I see."

"Not today," answered Arwen, pointing their bruises into healing. It was the moment Lolth had been awaiting.

She lunged the second Arwen let down her guard, but the Lady of Rivendell was prepared. She dodged, reaching around her neck for a vial of something, smashing it within her hand as there was no time to uncork it. Glass dug into her flesh; blood ran down into her sleeve. She fired the vial's contents at the half-spider's face, gathering a power in her opposing hand and launching it with the magic in her very blood.

Lolth staggered, "Not terrible... for a _youngling_."

"Thank you," Arwen answered coldly, but polite as ever.

Spiderweb launched in Arwen's direction, and she leapt from that way, swinging around the battlement's flagpole to land upon Lolth's more vulnerable back. She pulled a flask from her sleeve and poured it over the crack Mürwen's axe had made in that impenetrable shell.

Lolth laughed wickedly, tossing the Evenstar from her back. "Has no one told you it is a fool's game to poison a spider?"

"I've heard," Arwen replied, even as she blasted back, skidding on the floor. Her blow missed.

"Foolish of you to try to do it," venom dripped from both sets of fangs, and Lolth moved in for the kill.

Arwen thrust a third and final vial into the second mouth that stood where Lolth's waist should have been, her hands burning from the poison that dripped down onto them, and pushed her body into backing away, exhausted even from this brief encounter.

"That isn't a poison," she caught her breath. "That is an antidote...  _Tinnuthêl_."

None but those on the tower could have guessed what would happen next. But just as Arwen spoke those words, the first of several doses took effect, and the spider-queen stumbled. Tripped. And her unwieldy body fell, too, from the roof, unable to create any sort of silk to protect itself. And Arwen, whose cut hands had been infected with the monster's much more quickly-acting poison, collapsed to the floor as well, only conscious long enough to hear her allies cry in victory.

* * *

"I am sorry, Lady Arwen," Legolas knelt, and bent his head in sorrow. "The battle was my fault... she came for me. Because I departed Mirkwood..."

"Nay, Legolas," she assured, soft. "She came, and used you as an excuse to do it. No other nation of _adan_ or elleth would believe her still sane if she had attacked unprovoked... if she had brought up claims about our having kidnapped you, Lolth would have recieved some sort of leverage. She was evil... but not unintelligent."

"All the same... if I had but stayed in Mirkwood..."

"If you had stayed in Mirkwood," Ecthelhel interjected roughly. "You would be dead, and we would not have received the poison that took hold your sister. And since that antidote is the only reason we defeated her, we, too, would all be _dead_."

"Yes," Arwen agreed. "As it stands... we have suffered casualties, but our cause lives on."

"Perhaps yours does. After all, _Aragorn_ still lives," spoke Ecthelhel bitterly. "And I am glad for it, truly... but all the world's hope has left me, along with Boromir."

"You must have faith," Legolas spoke, determined.

"You did not see the retinue of Gondor when we at last found something that could cut away the cocoons," she rubbed a tear from her face. "You could not tell one man from another, so badly poisoned they were. Their bodies had been made nearly liquid."

"We have all lost friends and loved ones," said Arwen softly. She glanced towards her injured hand. "Among other things."

All three looked upon her left hand, the one which had been poisoned. It was far from the hand that remained as it was, youthful and fair, the softness of which had been extolled by many a bard-song. The flesh was still connected to her skin, but it was wizened, now, shriveled and a deathly white-grey, joints incapable of motion. If she had been mortal, the rest of her, too, would have died as such. 

"You are fortunate to have lived," Ecthelhel exhaled, long and slow, trying to release the aggression from her grief.

"I am... but I have lost the use of it forever." Arwen glanced to her right hand, "I shall have to learn to cast my spells twice as accurately and twice as strongly with this hand alone. I... do not know if I can do it within this century. It took decades to attain even what balance I have now..."

"I sincerely hope this war shall be over within the century," Legolas sighed. He paused, "The lives of the _adan_ are not so long as to afford it continuing like this."

"Many have died from it already," said Ecthelhel solemnly.

They were quiet for a moment.

A hand rapped against Arwen's door. She answered, "Please, come in!"

Eowyn was there, a slight smile upon her face. "We finished cutting the North Wall cocoons... we found a few survivors."

A cautious hope lit Ecthelhel's eyes, "Can it truly be so?"

She explained, "Some were lucky enough to escape being poisoned, though they're still having some difficulty breathing after being constricted like that for an hour or so. They're not particularly in the best shape, Lady Arwen..."

"I shall be there, Lady Eowyn," Arwen replied, "Though my work may not be as quick as it is typically. Have you sent for my father?"

"The one they call Galiena ran for him as soon as we asked," Eowyn replied, pleased to answer such. "If the shieldmaidens are no longer needed to keep watch..."

"Yes, you may dismiss them from guard... I wish above all for them to take whatever rest they can," Arwen nodded, standing at once. "There will be many battles ahead... and I fear to say that they may be even worse than this one."

A collective shudder ran throughout the room, recalling the horrors of the battle past. The spider-bodied fiends. The biting Duergar. The nigh-ceaseless reinforcements that retreated only when their leader fell. None of them enjoyed such an idea.

It was Legolas who spoke first. "I am going to see Aragorn... we must take joy where we can, in these darkest days."

"That is wise advice, indeed," Arwen agreed, and thought on her living father and her uninjured right hand. "That is wise advice, and I think I shall follow it. Where in the healing halls have you put the survivors, Lady Eowyn?"

"Right side of the hall from here, every room they fit in starting second one in," Eowyn answered and smiled a little bit in turn. "You're welcome to come as well, Ecthelhel of the Rangers, if Dúnedain healing is as miraculous as I have heard it be."

"You may even watch, if you wish," Ecthelhel chuckled, and all four quickly departed.

The wizard walking beneath that balcony outside glanced upwards.

"Dark times, indeed," he muttered ominously, and took a deep drag of his pipe.


End file.
